


we haunt ourselves

by Takykardi



Category: GOT7
Genre: Angst, Big bro lil bro, Canon Universe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, Loneliness, Misunderstandings, Most likely OOC, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, soft bois, some drinking, worried hyungs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:00:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26771056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Takykardi/pseuds/Takykardi
Summary: In which Bambam doesn't know what to do with himself during GOT7's unexpected break, and the one person he thinks about seems to have forgotten about him.
Relationships: Kunpimook Bhuwakul | BamBam & Jackson Wang
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34





	1. a sad sad song

**Author's Note:**

> Hi
> 
> Set in the beginning of 2020. Jackson comes off uncharacteristically neglectful at the start of this fic, but  
> it's no reflection on my views of him, I adore him and he's the sweetest ever 
> 
> Pretty sure no one will read this because platonic angstyfluffy Jackbam doesn't really seem to be a thing in fics (cry) judging from the tag, but I'll just entertain myself tho >:3
> 
> ANyway thanks for reading if you do ♡
> 
> Disclaimer, this work is purely and utterly fictional

_Breaking news: popular K-pop idol involved in bar fight in Gangnam_

_A 22 year old Thai rapper based in South Korea left a nightclub in Gangnam late Saturday evening with a bruised face. The individual has not been named, but fans have a sneaking suspicion of who it could be. At the time of writing it the reason for the fight remains unknown, but sources state no charges will be pressed from either one of the parties..._

Bambam read the short snippet of text, once, twice, thrice. During it, his expression didn't leave its utterly deadpan state once. There wasn't a single twitch of his lip, no curl of his eyebrow. Nothing, blaring indifference, and then — a guick tap on the little x sent it plunging into oblivion, out of sight, out of mind.

But he’d still caught a glimpse of the comments section. Obviously everyone knew by now it was him, it wasn’t that hard to figure out.

And still, somehow, he couldn’t muster the energy to care. 

At least they hadn't been able to snap a photo, and thank fuck for that. JYP might have had a thing or two more to say to him otherwise. At the end of the wet, hazy evening he'd snuck out the back door and into the awaiting car, with an icepack pressed to his cheek. Swiftly, like a weasel, before the bloodthirsty vultures — aka, the paparazzi — had a chance to throw themselves at him. He was faster.

Standing by the living room window in his apartment, he peered out over the city. Preparing for the night, it had wrapped itself in a pitch black blanket, stars sprinkled all over it like fairy dust. He could see all of it from his vantage point, a whole sea of brightly gleaming streetlights, headlights and billboards. But no one saw him.

Sirens echoed somewhere in the distance, but in here the silence was palpable. A lonesome lamp in the corner acted as the only light source, leaving most of his living room bathing in diffuse shadows. 

On nights like these, he did feel lonely. A purr below him ripped a welcome hole in it. Reaching down, he gave one of his cats a quick scratch behind its ear. 

As he refocused his vision on the view, he could dimly make out his face, reflected in the glass. His hair, one stale, clotted light-gray tuft poking up at the back of his head, and the gruesome, lingering imprints of knuckles on his cheekbones. He didn't have to check a mirror to know they still looked ghastly, blood vessels cracked and blooming in different shades of blue and purple. He raised a finger to experimentally nudge at the skin, and stifled a wince. Still sore.

The other guy —a real piece of work — had smashed him up pretty decently. But he ended up mangled too. Not like he was proud of it, but before they were finally yanked away from each other, both of them had rolled around in shattered pieces of glass on the sticky floor, cheered on by drunken partygoers.

It was uncharacteristic and unheard of. But management had already handed his ass to him. While they did, he lay sprawled out in bed, with an apocalyptic headache pounding away at his skull and the phone lopsidedly resting between his chin and the pillow. They’d been firm, but oddly gentle, while chuntering on about the group’s image and what’s at stake. But young men were young men sometimes, after all.

_Yes. Yes, yes, yes, of course I understand. I won't do it again._

After repeating exactly that, like a drone, for a good fifteen minutes, he’d been let off the hook pretty easily.

Not even an hour later, JB, Jinyoung and Mark called him. One after the other, all of them essentially delivering identical lectures until it poured out of his ears and he felt like putting a bullet in his brain. 

Obviously not for real. Because they just cared, they just worried. Jinyoung’s wise words still echoed, and obviously he was right.

“Relaxing and enjoying yourself is very much encouraged at the moment, Bam. But getting into a fist fight as an idol is like...unacceptable. It could ruin your whole career, you know how people are, condemning everything. You were lucky to escape with a black eye this time.”

Bambam had, of course, humbly agreed and admitted to be the one at fault. 

“Okay, alright,” Jinyoung had sighed, his voice radiating affection for his younger group member, before he continued, pressingly, “...but what started it? The fight, what did you argue about?”

He didn’t answer that. And somehow he'd just gotten away with mumbling avoidantly, until all that came out the other end was more melodramatic sighing. After a finishing "take care of yourself, Bambam", he'd reluctantly hung up.

Next, Mark was up, dialing him all the way from the US. Indistinct chatter and laughter — probably from his family — was in danger of overruling the soft, slightly accented words as he tutted over the atypical carelessness.

"How drunk must you have been to get yourself into that situation?"

"Not that drunk."

That was a bit of a stretch. His recollections definitely had several holes in them, punched by what must have been tubs worth of alcohol. But big bro Mark settled nonetheless, asking him to behave and to be prepared for a meet-up the second he got back to South Korea. 

"Sure. Yeah, of course."

Last but not least the sovereign of the group had called, requesting a video call that was blatantly refused.

"Just want to see your face, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, JB."

Sounding dubious, he'd accepted it, before throwing himself in a tedious monologue that had Bambam slowly dying on the inside the longer it went on.

And when JB finally was done, he wanted to know the same thing as Jinyoung.

"How'd that fight start?"

"Eh...it wasn't serious, nothing to worry about."

"Don't give me that, you're like the nicest person on the planet, something must have —"

"I don't remember."

And that was that. The white lie slid off his tongue, apparently believable enough. That was hours ago, and now all that remained of the incident was the public's speculations and an independence day-hangover.

Nursing a glass of soju in one hand, and his phone in the other, his fingers automatically clicked their way to Instagram. Out of habit, and probably something else too. Genuine interest, love, adoration. They continued onwards, to the user he kept up with regularly even though he didn’t follow anyone publicly. 

J-a-c-k-s -

— and then the suggestion popped up.

He still checked it. Religiously. Not that he was even remotely sure that the account owner paid any attention to that fact anymore. 

When he saw the most recent post, he poked the heart that would send pixelated appreciation to the smooth-cheeked guy in the photo, wherever he was right now. Not that he'd notice, not that he would. Their line of communication had gone dead some time ago. 

By no choice of Bambam’s.

As he navigated off the site, the phone vibrated in his palm. A name plastered across the screen, very uncannily.

Could have been a misclick. He hadn't seen those letters coupled with the contact photo for over two months. The picture itself sent a tidal wave of distress mixed with a slew of fond memories through him, all the way into his fingertips. The pair of them, arms laced around each other’s shoulders, Bambam hunching down a little since he was the taller one. Heartfelt smiles on their faces, extending all the way to their eyes and into infinity. 

Staring at it indecisively, he watched it ring until the screen went black. He chucked it onto the couch, where it landed with a thud, startling one of his cats awake.

"Sorry, sorry, kitty.”

He let out complaint in the form of a sigh, heard by no one. No one but his walls, and to be honest, at this point he'd nearly taken up a habit of talking to them. It might be a good idea to shower, to eat...but his fridge was empty, the bathroom miles away. Or he could just call it a night, head to sleep, wake at a decent time, occupy himself with...

...something. But what? His schedule was a gaping void and he'd never been good at organizing his days, never been good when faced with so much time and no clue what to do with it. He could do anything, everything. But the person he wanted to spend it with was in the same city and yet worlds away. And everyone seemed to be content with the current situation, fulfilling themselves and basking in the temporary freedom.

Everyone but him. This apartment was vast, and he felt it even more when he was alone. The mewls of cats alleviated the static atmosphere, but otherwise, he felt like he just floated from room to room with no destination in mind. On standby, waiting for something to happen and wondering when it would. He missed concerts, missed interviews, missed goofing around. The next album release felt lightyears away.

After finishing the soju in one swig, he felt it burn his soft palate and settle in the hollow of his tummy. His fingertips left the window, bare toes curling against the sleek wooden floorboards 

It was cold.


	2. damage control

When Jackson Wang read the same news article as Bambam — the same evening, but some ten minutes afterwards — he was in the middle of a carefully prepared and very scrumptious dinner. To be honest, vacantly scrolling news portals while enjoying meat cooked into tender perfection and a glass of wine did feel slightly...sacrilegious. 

But it's not like anyone was here to call him out, for not indulging in Murakami or something equally ostentatious at the moment. Not to mention, his brain was fried, after another day spent in his studio, every single intelligent thought spilled into new song lyrics. So to hell with it. 

He skimmed over the article while blowing cool air at a piece of meat, and thought nothing of it at first. 

K-pop idol involved in a bar fight. Well, happened. Not like, very often, seeing as everyone in the industry was pretty much hellbent on keeping up a wholesome front — especially now. The city was stuck in semi-hibernation, and news outlets were hungry for any scoop they could get their claws on.

Jackson would refer to himself as a pacifist without second thought if queried on his views on physical violence. _Don't lay a hand on anyone unless it's out of love._ That heartwarming sentiment had very much reverberated in his childhood home in China as he sailed his way through adolescence. 

He couldn't actually even recall being in a fight, like...ever. Not even way, way back, when he got majorly pissed at that photographer for pushing that poor girl that one time.

The only fights he'd partaken in were the ones of the innocent kind with the rest of Got7, involving cheeky banter and playful wrestling and whatnot. And those were very, very much a showcase of love and friendship, and nothing else.

He plopped the piece of meat into his mouth, and then another, and another. Meanwhile, he spent a grand total of a minute pondering who the unknown vigilante might be. Well, whoever it was, the guy or...gal...most likely guy...seemed to have escaped with his reputation intact.

Times were tough for everyone right now, everyone’s fuse was short. Middle of winter, the streets a soggy, uninspiring soup of brown-gray muck, everyone on tenterhooks because time was at a standstill. Not least for Got7.

Yeah. Jackson was basically ready to throw an (imaginary) punch of his own. 

While grinding an extra chewy piece of meat with his canines, he thumbed his way to the next poorly written article. Something about which department stores Psy preferred when it came to tailored suits. How very interesting, definitely something everyone had to be informed of, and —

...wait. Squinting, he reversed. A tiny light flicked on, somewhere in the foggy caves of his mind.

 _Wait wait wait,_ hold up. Hold up.

While his chopsticks bided their time mid air, his brain slowly unfurled. It might be functioning at only half capacity right now, but once it caught up, he blinked dumbly until it clicked. 

Blinked, for about two minutes.

With his eyes fixed on two specific words in the article.

22\. Thai. Involved in a bar fight.

A Thai rapper. 22 years old. Left with a bruised face.

He knew someone who was 22 years old and Thai. A very close someone, someone with a wide grin and a squeaky laughter, someone he’d never in a million years thought to be capable of hurting a fly, let alone sock someone in the face. 

The chopsticks slid back into the bowl. With the contents of his stomach whipped into nervous mush, he tapped in a shaky B in the contact list of his phone, and dialed.

It rang. And rang and rang.The persistent tooting just fueled his ever-growing concern. Okay. But maybe he was preoccupied.

_When was the last time we even talked?_

Jackson’s upper lip curled in concentration as he tried to recall it. Actually he had...no idea. No idea whatsoever. The last few weeks of his life had been dominated by a creative streak, most of it spent in his studio. There, he flourished, created, made plans, bounced ideas and wrote songs as if his fingers were on fire.

Admittedly, he'd been a little disconnected lately, but now was such a great time to focus on solo projects, dreams left unfulfilled for so long.

He knew he'd talked to JB just a few weeks ago. Same went for the rest of them. Ever since their schedules for 2019 ended, they'd all been eternally grateful for receiving a well-deserved breather and time to focus on themselves.

After taking a strengthening sip of wine, he finally came to the realization that he’d spoken to most of them at some point the last few weeks. He’d gushed over Yugyeom’s pooch over Instagram, Skype-called Mark who currently was in the US, applauded Youngjae’s recent efforts on SoundCloud. Yeah. A few hi’s and hello’s here and there. Not much, but they kept in touch. 

But Bam...

He couldn't, for the love of him, recollect when he'd last talked to Bambam. Unless it really was as long as almost two months ago, a couple slapdash words exchanged over messenger.

All ideas of a pleasant dinner had vacated Jackson's mind now. The hotpot lay next to him, cooling and forgotten as he opened the app. Hastily, he scrolled down the jumbled mess of conversations, many of them on standby until he found the time to give them attention.

But it took strangely long to find the one titled _Double B :)._ Too long, long enough for a coil of dread to slowly sweep through every cell of his body. When he finally did locate it, the feeling exploded into fully fledged, raw guilt. 

This conversation, the one he absolutely should't have left unattended, held piles and piles of messages. Shamelessly ignored piles he'd somehow missed completely.

He'd replied to the one in the beginning of the year. The one where Bambam so thoughtfully praised his performance on a Chinese new years gala, and wished him a nice time with his family.

But after that...it just consisted of a chilling congregation of unrecruited, brotherly love. All of it unnoticed, and how the fuck could he have forgotten to check it?

 _Jan 25: Yoo are you back in Seoul now??_ _🤩_

_Jan 28: I'm bored, don’t have much on the agenda except some shoots. Saw you're back. Wanna grab coffee?😝 I got a new couch, need your fat ass to test it out :)))_

_Feb 1: Jackssss. The guys said you're meeting some industry people and stuff for solo things. That’s so cool, good luck with that and with team wang merch. No rush but when you see this call or text me ok??!!! 💗_

Jackson let his gaze linger on a close up of one of his cats, a blurry one where it cutely nose-bumped the camera. Clumps of dry cotton occupied his throat as he read the caption.

_Cats miss you too. Haha he looks like Gollum in this one 😹 👹_

It continued after that, row after row of ignored coffee date suggestions and hangout requests, the tone turning increasingly glum with each one. It was noticeable. In the gradual decline of emotes, in the nonverbal cues implying a unspoken sadness behind the curtain of words. 

_Feb 5: Brooo are you alive?_

_Feb 7: Grats on the L'Oreal campaign...that's awesome. Looked so striking in those pics ;)_

_Feb 8: I'm starting to think you're just ignoring me on purpose or something ahaa *sadface* I don’t wanna call to disturb you though_

_Feb 8: Or...the fangirls finally got their way and you’ve been abducted and forced to do aegyo for hours in some basement right now oh shit_

_Feb 11: Jinyoung said he talked to you, that you’re busy with songwriting, that's inspirational. But I exist tooooo hyung :(_

At the “hyung” part, Jackson nearly broke. Right now, it echoed in his brain, spoken in that typically whiny Bambam-way, slightly tinted with Thai and very much tinted with cute. 

_Feb 13: I was in your neighborhood and thought of asking you out for sushi, called but you didn't answer but call me when you can please?? Okay bye skrrt skrrt_

Then, he reached the very recent one. Two weeks ago, two gut-wrenching collections of sinister pixels on anonymous, off-white background. 

_Feb 16: So, Jackson...since you're not replying to me I guess you're just busy or just don't want to talk to me idk. Anyway, see you around, sometime._

Fuck.

That was the last text, but there was a missed messenger call following it. Dated February the 27th, at ten past one, AM. 

Knitting his brows, Jackson realized that was yesterday. The day the k-pop idol was involved in the fight.

 _Double fuck._ So Bambam had called him, maybe in a alcohol-infused haze, only to be blatantly ignored. At that point, Jackson was snoring away in soft sheets, unaware of the fact that heated scenarios featuring his group member currently played out in unnamed clubs in Gangnam.

Fueled by a newfound determination, he gave the relentless calling another go. But the third attempt remained depressingly fruitless. No response, until he momentarily surrendered and settled for calling someone else who might be able to fill him in.

Luckily, he picked up on the second ring. If he hadn’t, Jackson would probably have ripped all of his newly washed hair out in frustration.

 _"JB!_ Thank fuck, an actual person answering when I call, wow. _"_

"Hey Jackson, I was actually about to —"

"Was it Bambam? The k-pop idol involved in that bar fight?" 

He'd expected, or more like hoped, that the elder would ask what the hell he was blubbering about. But no such luck. As he gripped the phone tighter, he heard JB sigh in dejection and lower his voice.

"Yeah. I was gonna call you and ask if you'd seen it. I don't really know all of the specifics, but...it was him."

While trying his best to gather himself, Jackson eagerly listened to what little details JB could provide him. Apparently, he’d called him, only to be met with an aloof and very much grouchy Bambam, begging to be left alone so he could sleep off his hangover. 

“Didn’t he tell you then? Like how it started, what happened?”

“Nah. He barely talked to me or the rest even though we all tried. Basically just gave me one syllable, monotonous answers to everything."

Even though he couldn’t see it, Jackson could practically hear him wrinkling his nose in scathing disapproval as he recited their conversation. And the "monotonous"-part didn't sound good at all.

"That’s...uhm. Worrying. But have you seen him recently? What did he say then, did he say if he’s...okay?"

"He doesn't really answer much when we call anymore."

Jackson let this information sink in, unsure of what to say. All he could do was listen as JB carried on, his trademark somber, mellow voice darkening even further as the concern bled through.

"He claims it’s because his phone was broken and that he’s been busy. I don’t know if I believe that. When I talked to him this afternoon he basically said he sorted it with JYP and that the case is closed. And then he pretty much hung up on me mid sentence, so...I don’t know. Just kinda giving him some time to cool off I guess."

There was a pause. Jackson nibbled on his lip until it hurt. This sounded very-fucking-not good-at-all at the moment. A series of small sighs and head scratching was audible at the other end before JB spoke again.

"It's hard to get in touch with him. I’m not really sure what's going on but he seems...down."

Based on his and Bambam’s one-sided text exchange, Jackson was slowly reaching the same conclusion. The phone suddenly burnt him, scorching hot against his palm. 

"JB...I think I fucked up," he admitted, scrunching his face up in a grimace no one was there to witness. "I've been so distracted that I’ve flat out ignored his messages. Like, I haven’t even remembered he exists...he’s sent me like twenty of them for the last month that I somehow missed. I don’t even know how…it wasn’t on purpose, but...”

Letting out a pained groan, he slapped a palm to his forehead. “...it just happened.”

JB remained sympathetic on the other end, his voice back to honeyed and consoling as he reassured him. Everyone was busy now, he pointed out, busy busy busy. Somehow Jackson was quickly growing tired of that word, not least because of himself.

“It’ll be alright, Jacks. It’s understandable that you’ve focused on yourself. We’ll talk to him, don’t worry.”

But Jackson wasn’t so sure at all it was understandable. In fact he was very much sure it wasn’t, and as soon as they said their goodbyes, he pressed the phone to his ear again to give it one last stubborn shot. Or two. Or three. Or five.

But all he was met with was the same damn agonizing silence. He realized now that’s what he’d been dishing out for the last few months, and now it was here to bite him in the ass. 

After a few more tries, he had to call it. There was no happy, chirpy Bambam picking up after the first ring, no charmingly juvenile voice breaking over the greeting _"hey Flawless J, what's up!"_

Nothing. Big, fat nothing racking his chest with thick pangs of guilt. That, and a silent promise to head to Bambam’s place first thing tomorrow. He’d go there, make sure the kid was alright, and it would be fine. It had to be.

Setting the phone down on the table, he stared at it for a while, his breaths dense as he quietly wished it would just ring and it would be him.

_I'm sorry Bam._


	3. I remember you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have to put this on a little hiatus, but will pick it up soon

Rain thundered against the windows in Bambam’s bedroom, sending sheets of water cascading down the slick glass. It was Monday, and nothing was better. His insides were still liquified goop, the constant rattling from outside like nails on a chalkboard in his ears.

Next to him, somewhere under the crumpled sheet, his phone demanded his attention. As he dug it out, a prompt waited for him. Messages, loads of them, from...

_Jackson._

He didn't bother clicking onto the conversation, but sliding down the preview revealed part of it.

_Jackson: Hey, Bam. Answer when I call, please, urgent._

Urgent, huh. The on-screen-clock showed 1PM, the display 6 missed calls. _Six._ So now the golden boy wanted to talk. Most likely just to chew him out for the recent stunt he pulled. 

The second after he referred to him as that inside his brain, his mind sharply berated him. He felt nothing but pride for Jackson and his solo career taking off. He wanted to give him nothing but his undying support, really. But he hadn’t been prepared for their friendship to be put on the back-burner as a result of it.

And maybe he was overreacting. Maybe he was acting like a kid. Well, he was. But the realization still didn't keep him from angrily throwing the phone as it started shrieking and wailing again for the seventh time.

It scurried over the floor, all the way to the corridor where it hit the bathroom door with a dull thud. 

He watched it for a few seconds, almost expecting it to grow arms and legs and come back to scream at him to answer. When it didn't, he planted palms on the floor, sliding toward it. A few seconds later, it was turned on silent.

No one could reach him now.

After crashing into bed again, he pulled the comforter up to his ears, shutting out the whining of the storm outside as he drifted off.

* * *

Seven hours and about fifteen missed calls later, Jackson was ready to storm Bambam’s apartment like a one-man guerrilla squad. Showing up to someone's — even a dear friend’s — door uninvited might be rude, but frankly, Jackson gave zero fucks right now. And okay, considering his own recent behavior, he had no right to barge into anyone’s home, and yet he was about to do exactly that.

The thing was, Bambam always picked up the phone. As the embodiment of over-the-top and extroverted, he never turned down an opportunity to run his mouth, ever. Bambam not answering was equal to a nationwide emergency, an anomaly of nebulous proportions, totally unheard of. And no matter how much he drove him up the walls with his constant stream of _Jackson-hyung this, Jackson-hyung that,_ said hyung would pay big bucks to hear just any old word vomit from him right now.

After he pulled up outside his building, a kind lady emerged like a godsend, exiting the front door so he could slip inside. It had a code, he was sure of that. But of course his dumb self had forgotten that ages ago.

Inside the elevator, he fidgeted. He rehearsed what to say, and felt bizarre unease over the fact he was nervous meeting someone he knew in and out. As he prepared to press the doorbell, he hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second before telling himself to be a fucking man and bite the bullet. 

A minute passed. Two minutes. Filtered noises were audible from inside, two socked feet approaching. Finally, the door slid open, revealing its inhabitant, tangly-haired and squinting in what looked like freshly-awakened confusion.

“Hey, Bambam,” Jackson offered. That, and one of his very brightest smiles. But it wasn’t reciprocated. 

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

The hostile greeting wasn’t what jarred Jackson. It was his usual soft-spokenness, now replaced by coarse pieces of sandpaper, much raspier than he’d ever heard. 

Bambam shifted awkwardly where he stood, leaning against the door frame. Jackson snapped himself out of it, forcing himself to sound level and like this wasn’t out of the ordinary at all.

"I...wanted to come check on you. I called but you didn't answer so...is it okay if I come in?"

He watched him mull it over in stiff-lipped silence. The door opened wider at last, a dejected sigh echoing in the corridor as he was allowed entry. 

It was pitch black outside, but Bambam looked like he just fell out of bed. In a state of disbelief, Jackson soaked him up — the oddly hardened, boyish features, the rich, sandy tones of his complexion transformed into pellucid water, blending into the gray wallpaper behind. 

Worrying.

One of his cats appeared, leaping on its hind legs and demanding ear-scratches. While occupying himself with the feline, Jackson distreetly stole more critical glances at his friend from below.

"Did you just wake up or something? It's evening."

"Just had a nap,” came the muttered reply. 

There was some weird barrier laying between them, thick and airy like bubble wrap. Jackson was pretty sure he was the one to create it, and he’d never expected it. Not between him and Bambam, between _them._ Two peas in a pod, nah, never.

His throat gurgled with unuttered apologies as he scratched his head, but before they could transpire, the receiver had turned on his heels.

“Want a coffee? I need one.”

The light in the kitchen flicked on as he sauntered in. The cats followed in his wake, happily mewing, as did Jackson.

"Sure, sure...yeah."

Idling by Bambams kitchen table, he watched his angular shoulders twitch and snap as he fiddled with the coffee maker. While in the process, he didn't spare his visitor one glance. Not one. The awkward silence persisted, alleviated only by quaint mewls as the quartet of cats swiveled around Bambams legs.

As he finally swung around, the kitchen light hit his cheekbones from above. His face illuminated, allowing Jackson a crisp look at him — and the leftovers of volatile knuckles colliding with his cheek. A purple swamp, stretching from his right eye and several inches into every direction of the sun, and it looked...pretty gruesome.

"Bam..." he started, clearing his throat, "...how have you been? Does that hurt? Looks pretty bad...I read about what happened."

A coffee cup was slammed against the counter, resulting in a loud clink. Leaning against it, Bambam gripped it with both hands, defiantly meeting Jackson’s gaze with his chin raised.

"Of course you did. Is that why you're here? Suddenly want to see me cause I went and almost messed up our rep? Management already bitched me out. You don't have to bother lecturing."

When he was done, he looked slightly taken aback by his own outburst. Just for a second, before his expression turned stony again. The words hung between them in strings, lingering. Burning, slowly, and efficiently pushing them further apart. 

"That's not why I'm here," Jackson said softly. "I was worried, and wanted to see you."

"No need to be."

"I think there is...a little bit. Since when do you get into fights? That's so unlike you, I mean...really, you’re the personification of gentle."

Bambam cracked a smile then, but it wasn't his typically sunny one, nope. Nowhere close. It was sardonic, all teeth and curled upper lip. Jackson heard him mumble something unintelligible in Thai, only to wince and rub his temples the second after.

"Can everyone stop saying that now?"

"Headache?"

"Yeah. Anyway, it was just a stupid misunderstanding. Nothing to worry about. Here."

He deposited the cup of coffee on the table, signaling the end of the discussion. Jackson zipped it, busying himself with sipping. Sip, silence. Sip, sip, and silence. But when the cupboard was opened, a soju bottle hauled out and a good splash of it poured into Bambam’s own mug of coffee, he couldn’t keep it zipped anymore.

"So we're drinking soju with our daily coffee now, huh?

"Yep."

It was short, curt and cold. Jackson had no idea how to handle this new Bambam, this version of him who looked like he’d lain in a gutter for a week and drank soju like there was no tomorrow. Calling it worrying was putting it lightly, but he decided not to focus on it right now. Might just be the old hair of the dog.

"JB and the rest said they've been calling you lately, but that you're avoiding them."

More silence followed as he watched him finish the soju-coffee in one indifferent swig. The cats mewed. Honestly, he'd never in a million years thought he'd receive the silent treatment from _this_ guy _._ Remaining by the counter, a million miles from him, Bambam stared dully ahead until Jackson addressed him again.

"Why are you ignoring your hyungs?"

Well. He instantly regretted that absolutely hypocritical question. The look of putrid hate he was sent might as well have been an arrow splitting his head in two equally tactless pieces. 

"Wait, wait, sorry, okay. I realize I'm not the one to talk about —"

"Not the one to talk, yeah. Not like you haven't been ghosting me for the last three months. And you know, that's fine." He threw the empty cup in the sink, scrambling with some cutlery as his pitch climbed in agitation. "And really, I understand you have your own life and don't want some stupid kid clinging to you like a leech, but —"

"Bammie.” Without realizing it, Jackson had shot up, his tone morphing into a threatening growl. "You're not a stupid kid. Stop."

They glared at each other, until Jackson softened. He stepped a bit closer. 

"Listen...I'm so sorry I didn't respond. There's no excuse, I just..." 

Sucking in a breath, he wondered how to phrase this. Nothing sounded satisfying. 

"I was so caught up in my own stuff that...I just didn't realize. I'm sorry, some people just slid under my radar. You know, I’ve really enjoyed doing...my own thing these past months. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

“Sure, I know, I understand. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

That was the most unconvincing 'I’m Fine TM' in the history of them. Thin, shaky and so obviously faked. He seemed to realize that himself, twitching against the counter, nails clawing at his bony arms.

"Bam..."

"I feel sick," he blurted, one palm on his tummy, face pulling a grimace. 'I'm still hungover, okay, so...if you wouldn't mind, I’ll catch up with you later.”

He squirmed under Jackson's examining gaze, side-stepping him and motioning to him to follow to the hallway. Jackson obliged, but he had pressing questions by now, urgent, urgent ones.

"Hungover? It's been two days already. How much did you drink? Do you have food? Painkillers? Or else I can —"

"Jackson. I'm fine."

Even if this was a diversion tactic, he wouldn't budge. All Jackson was able to dig out of him was a more of _"I'm fine"_ , coupled with other micro cues that suggested he just wanted him to walk out that damn door, right damn now.

"Okay. Okay, yeah," he relented finally, admitting defeat. "But we’ll meet up later. So...answer when we call."

He received a half-assed nod and a frigid shrug back. Not much more he could do, but while he loitered in the hall for just a moment, he wondered if it was safe to risk a hug. 

Probably not...but to hell with it. He stabbed a hole in the bubble wrap-wall, closed the gap between them — but the target remained a plank, stiff and thorny as Jackson choppily looped arms around him. His palm rested on a nodule in his spine (had they always been that pointed?), his chin shallowly sneaking into the junction of his neck.

And he wanted to say;

"Missed you."

But that would be so grossly paradoxical. That would just earn him more acidic looks and deepen the crevice between them. So he settled for;

“See you soon, alright. Promise to take care of yourself.”

...and Bambam slithered out of his grasp with a quick "uhuh".

Jackson had no other choice but to walk out the door, his heart heavy and burdened with both guilt and concern. Before he crawled into his car, he raised his gaze to Bambam’s window on the tenth floor.

It was darkened.

This had all gone to shit, and nothing was fixed.

Twenty-five minutes later he stood outside another door, in another part of town. As it unveiled another blast from the past, his body released some pent up tension. There was the charmingly unruly, black hair, eyes crinkling into slits as he lay eyes on Jackson. He still looked the same.

“Hey Jackson Wang from China,” came the sly greeting, and then Jackson found himself in a bear hug.

"JB, my god. So nice to see you."

Seated on the couch in JB’s lofty apartment, Jackson retold the events in a rambled, dramatic monologue. His audience was securely stationary at first, but as it went on, he started pacing the living room rug in badly concealed distress. When Jackson finally quieted, he sunk down next to him, fingers vacantly tracing the day-old stubble. 

"So…” he started, elongating the syllable, “...basically you got nothing out of him either?"

"Nothing. He's pissed at me, and he was acting weird. Like a totally different person."

If JB had sounded unalarmed on the phone a few days earlier, his current state was lightyears from that. A wrinkle appeared in his forehead, cavernous underneath the black bangs, and then another. Jackson watched him for a while as he mulled things over in his usual, subdued fashion, before mumbling a "well crap."

"Yeah. I got the feeling he never steps foot outside. Need to just get him out, I’ll hard carry him if I fucking have to.”

JB snorted a bitter laugh, while Jackson dug out his phone. It must be early morning in the States right now, he might not be awake. Luckily enough, a sparkly “hello!” blessed his eardrums just a few rings later. 

"Hey Mark. How’s LA? When will you be back? I'm organizing a meeting."

* * *

Back in his apartment, Bambam studied the spot in the hall that Jackson had just vacated.

More than three months since he'd last seen him. It was like seeing a phantom solidified all of a sudden, when all he’d been to Bambam until then were pixels on a screen. 

He probably should have let go of the childish petulance, just accept his apology, but eh. Too late now.

Memories trickled in as he stood by the window again, watching as the storm outside gradually calmed. All the years and years spent together lay stored in a safe corner of his mind, every moment they'd shared. Laughing, crying, goofing around, chasing the same dream. It was all he’d known for so long. It was an exhilirating roller coaster ride while it lasted. But those ended too, eventually.

While it was ongoing — while he experienced the pure thrill of it, literally growing up in the limelight — he'd never considered it might change at some point. Into this, whatever it was. His whole life on standby, the uncertainty if they'd even carry on after their seven year contract ended.

And inevitably people grew up, inevitably they grew apart. Inevitably it was a natural part of life, craving independence.

It was uncharacteristic of him to suddenly act like the poster boy of gloom, he realized that. But he just wanted someone to tell him that it would be _okay,_ that the house of cards they’d built together wasn’t about to crumble. And during the entirety of his and Jackson’s brief meeting, his body had been at constant war with itself. The angel on his shoulder telling him to sob into his chest, and the devil wanting to spit at him to just fuck off.

The former was a tiny bit stronger, just a little. But once he realized that, Jackson was already gone. 

His phone found its way into his palm again, finger hovering just over his name.

_Call him._

But he remained rooted on the spot, limb unmoving for minutes, maybe hours, maybe years. Inside, his bones were still infused with a welcoming warmth, tiny particles of electricity dancing on his skin, leftovers of Jackson’s ad libbed showcase of affection. Now, he secretly wished he’d still be here.

_Call him. Call him, call him, call him._

Maybe tomorrow.


End file.
